Demon's Plaything (3 page)

“You know she loves you, Ian,” she said on a commiserating sigh.

“I know. You love me, she loves me, everyone loves me,” he said mockingly as he stood and carried their plates to the sink. “But none of you respect me.”

“That’s not true.”

Her words sounded timid and frail, unreassuring even to her own ears.

“Huh.” He scoffed.

“She does the same thing to me!” she said, voice now a bit shrill. “Goes on and on and
on
about how sweet you are and how I should be more friendly and outgoing like you.”

“Yeah, Shay, but she doesn’t believe that you are fundamentally incapable of taking care of yourself.”

Shayla didn’t have a response.

“But anyway”—his face and voice transformed, and the brittle anger that had been in both smoothed away—“that’s going to change.”

She raised a brow and quirked up a corner of her mouth, trying to be supportive but not quite able to squelch her skepticism, guilty as she felt about it. This resolution was just the latest in a string of many, many others that had come before it.

“I’m serious,” he said as he dried his hands and joined her back at the table, placing the unopened deck of cards between them.

“I’m listening,” she said as she opened the cards, reveling in the feel of the stiff, plastic-coated paper in her hands.

She cut the deck and shuffled, waiting for Ian to begin.

“You know, you would have been amazing in Vegas.” Ian revived an old joke between them.

“Don’t think I wasn’t tempted every day of my residency,” she responded, allowing the repetition of the action to soothe her.

“So…” Ian began.

Shayla kept shuffling.

“I have a situation that could also be an opportunity…”

She kept shuffling, wondering how a conversation about how no one respected him had shifted into a request for a favor, one that he knew she was unwilling to give but that he seemed to have no qualms about asking for anyway.

“I have a…business arrangement”—Shayla couldn’t stop the unladylike snort that escaped her, but Ian soldiered on as if he hadn’t heard it—“with some people that’s gotten a little…unwieldy and having your help would be extremely beneficial.”

She stopped shuffling, put down the cards.

“Ian, what the fuck does that mean? That was just a series of words spewed in seemingly random order,” she said, exasperated.

Wordiness was one of Ian’s tells. The more he said, the bigger the ask, the theory being that most people would be too worn out by the time he finished to think very hard about what he’d said. She’d loved the quality when they were kids, had relied on it to get out of trouble more than a few times. But she was paying for it now. She narrowed her eyes and looked over at him, that simmering unease that always rose when Ian needed “help” slithering up her spine.

“Do you want the details, Shay?” he challenged.

He held her gaze and a moment passed, then another, and she knew that Ian had yet again won, at least for the moment. It was weak, cowardly, but she didn’t want the details, knew that if she had them, she’d be powerless in the face of her desire, almost compulsion, to make sure Ian was okay.

Take care of your brother
.

It had been ingrained in her since his birth, and thirty-three years later, the edict was a part of the very fiber of her being. And Ian knew it too, had used that knowledge to his advantage more times than she cared to remember. But she couldn’t fault him completely. Shayla well knew his manipulations, and how easily she bent to them, and she hadn’t yet gathered the will to resist them. That was all on her.

“No,” she finally said quietly, Ian’s cue to continue, though she knew what was coming next.

“Good. Well, you were at the event. I’m sure you saw the necessity for talented medical professionals to be available should the need arise.”

“So you want me to work these…events.”

It was a statement, not a question, and she felt her incredulity rising.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Why don’t I think you’re kidding?”

“Because I’m not.”

She looked away, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Shay.” Ian’s imploring tone both grated her nerves and tugged at her heart, which made her disgusted with herself.

“Ian, do you have any idea what you’re asking? That place gets raided and I go to jail, lose my license. I
will
end up dealing cards somewhere if I ever get out.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he said, an undercurrent of scorn tinting his voice. “And that’s not a concern.”

“How is it not?”

“Details, remember?” he shot back.

“Ian…” she said, a warning edge creeping into her voice.

“Shay, you know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t critical.”

The little lilt in his voice, that perfect mix of pleading and desperation that was quintessentially Ian had her resolve crumbling. She looked at him again, the shine in his brown eyes reminding her of their father’s, and relented.

“Fine,” she said on a deep breath, the weight of having sealed her own fate pressing down on her like a stone.

••••

A few days later, Shayla said her good-byes, weary after a long shift and practically ravenous. And weighed down by the problems that continued to vex her. Ian hadn’t called since they’d last spoken, but she knew it was a matter of time. Agreeing to help him was stupid, reckless, and she hadn’t even been brave enough to find out why he needed her so badly. She suspected though, knew Ian had an uncanny knack for finding trouble—and troublemakers—but this time felt different, and she hadn’t figured out why.

And on the other end of the spectrum was the little issue of that sinfully alluring, probably criminal man who wouldn’t leave her thoughts. All the complications she faced—Ian and Nana, not to mention her busy everyday life—and still in every spare moment, despite her most stringent efforts to prevent it, her thoughts drifted to Demon, constructed elaborate fantasies about meeting him in regular surroundings, getting to know him free from whatever craziness that might be swirling around them. A sigh escaped her. Wishing wouldn’t help, so she’d focus on problems she could fix. She thought about the diner she had to pass on the way home and decided
why not
? A strawberry shake and fries wouldn’t fix anything, and certainly wouldn’t help her hips, but they were just what the doctor ordered. She chuckled at her own stupid joke, the first real laugh she’d had in a while, and walked out to the parking lot, got into her car, and headed to her destination.

The restaurant, which everyone referred to as “the Diner,” its official name apparently lost to history, was two metal single-wide trailers smushed together. The quarters were cramped, the fixtures probably thirty years out of date, but that was part of its appeal, at least to Shayla. Seasons, times, lives came and went, but the Diner was there through it all, an unchanging feature in the landscape. The place was almost full, understandable given that it was dinnertime, but she managed to snag a small booth in the back. A surly waitress—as steady as the Diner was, its staff shifted with regularity so Shayla never bothered to learn names—took her order immediately, and she was left to her thoughts. She considered reading her news feed, but decided against it. That would be way too depressing. Then she played that mindless game on her phone where she lined up matching fruit in a row, but she was distracted, bored, so that didn’t last long either. She finally decided she’d people watch, so while she waited for her food, she ripped her napkin into even-sized strips, a mindless habit that she’d had since childhood and that Nana’s threats and Ian’s teasing had never managed to cure, and listened to the conversations around her.

“I told you they’ll win the pennant this year,” a man in a red plaid shirt said to his companion as they both sipped half-full mugs of coffee.

“We’ve been down this road, man. They have to show and prove before I believe it,” the companion, dressed in a blue plaid shirt that was identical except for its color, responded.

Blue Plaid was right; the team had no shot, but Shayla appreciated Red Plaid’s optimism. The world could do with a bit more of that. Then she wondered if they’d dressed the same on purpose and smiled at the thought.

“Must be something nice to make you smile like that. Care to share?”

Shayla froze, instantly on the defensive and trying to ignore the way his deep, melodic voice washed over her, the way that, in a flash, her melancholy dropped away and her body jolted, her heartbeat spiking with excitement and arousal. She didn’t have to look up to know who it was. It was him, Demon. The man she’d noticed the instant she’d walked into that wretched place, the man who’d crossed her mind countless times, the man she wanted right now.

She had to remember that this man was as bad as her brother, maybe worse.

But even that knowledge couldn’t change her response to him or change the fact that he’d been burned into her mind, imprinted almost. Without looking at him, she could clearly envision his long, solid-looking limbs, his lean torso, the sparkle in his eye that went from teasing to serious to heated in milliseconds. Warmth suffused her as she imagined those eyes, but she refused to look up. Yes, she wanted him, but no, for a multitude of reasons that exhausted her just to think about, she could not have him. Maybe if she ignored him, he’d go away.

A heartbeat passed, then another, and she felt a surge of relief. Which was promptly crushed as he settled across from her.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to sit,” she snapped, using that firm, icy tone that tamed the most rambunctious visitors to the ER.

“Good, because I don’t recall asking,” he said, the teasing in his voice making her look up at him finally.

Huge mistake.

She’d remembered what he looked like, had, despite her repeated mental admonitions, replayed his image more than enough, but that picture in her mind couldn’t convey the raw masculinity and pure sex appeal that pervaded his aura. His eyes were as alight with playfulness as she remembered, but her imagination must have dulled them because here, face-to-face, they damn near sparkled. She looked down, and her gaze snagged on full lips curved in a mischievous smile, then caught sight of his broad shoulders, muscular, but not bulky, a place she definitely wouldn’t mind resting her head after a long day, or as she straddled his waist…

Whoa
.

She tried to refocus herself. There was way too much going on in her life. Not to mention, this guy was a stranger, one who was at least a little mixed up in Ian’s godforsaken activities. Not a person she could even consider thinking about in
that
way.

She looked into his eyes again, him clearly having no doubt what she’d just been thinking. She gave him her best scowl, but he just laughed, which sent her blood pressure on the rise. A relief really, when she pondered it. Pissed off would keep her focused, keep her mind off those teasing eyes, his lips, his shoulders…
Shit!

Well, that didn’t seem to be working, so another approach was in order.

“Did Ian send you here?”

“Ian? Is that the shifty dude I saw you with the other night?”

She nodded.

“Huh,” he said. “A word of advice. You seem like a nice girl. That guy’s trouble, and you can do better. I’d stay away if I were you.”

“He’s my brother,” she said, rolling her eyes.

And then she belatedly wondered why she’d felt the need to clarify her relationship with Ian. And then she wondered no more, deciding the answer would probably not be something she liked.

He raised a brow at the revelation and nodded. “Oh, I’m aware. But the advice still stands. Brother or no, he’s bad news.”

Shayla narrowed her eyes, wondering how he’d known that she and Ian were related, wondering who else knew about her.

Damn it, Ian!

Disappointed that Ian wasn’t there for her to throttle, she again looked to Demon.

“And you’re not bad news?” she asked.

He shrugged, the move as easy and casual as he always seemed to be. “I’m not the worst.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” she heard herself say.

“Oh, I think you do believe me. And I think you very much don’t like that,” he said, voice playful but eyes serious.

As much as she loathed to admit it, he was right, and that upset—and embarrassed—her, so much so that she looked away. When she returned her gaze to him, she ignored their previous exchange and went back to his earlier statement.

“My brother and I are none of your business,” she snapped. “And I haven’t been a ‘girl’ in a long time. And really, we’re none of your business anyway.”

He smiled, and she realized that she’d repeated herself.

“Sure. Whatever,” he said, still beaming. “Just a friendly word of advice.”

Before she could speak, the waitress came over with her shake and fries, though her encounter with this man, the nervous anticipation and just plain nervousness he sparked, had more than taken her appetite.

“Wow. My favorites,” he said with the enthusiasm of a child as he grabbed a fry and dipped it into the shake. Just as she had planned to, but she brushed that thought aside.